


The Sorcerers' Stone

by OliverWoodGryffindorKeeper



Series: The Famous Harry Potter [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: AU, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-03
Updated: 2018-01-29
Packaged: 2018-08-11 22:33:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7910158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OliverWoodGryffindorKeeper/pseuds/OliverWoodGryffindorKeeper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry Potter grows up not knowing who he is, but with a witch and wizard, living in a magical household. No one knows he lived through Voldemort’s attack, so he’s not famous, but still as proficient at magic, and good.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Who Lived?

**Author's Note:**

> When first introducing characters or places from the book canon, I try to get their descriptions and first impressions as near as possible to canon as I can, in later books when peoples' personalities are different, I won't do this as much.

Mr. and Mrs. Maulde, of 21 Fairlane Road would have been proud to declare that they had been charged with the care of one Harry Potter, because that was the truth.

/* /* /* *\ *\ *\

Jensen Maulde was an employee of the Ministry of Magic in the era of Voldemort. It was a very dangerous job at the time, and most of the work had to be done covertly. The job he had in the Magical Law Enforcement Patrol - in the Investigation Department - wasn’t usually put to use with the Dark Lord out in full force, what with dark wizards all but running the place. He was a tall, swarthy man; very loud with a cheerful laugh. His father had been a sailor, his mother a witch skilled in water-based charms.  
Florence Maulde had met her husband at the Ministry offices when she delivered goodies to her sister in the Department of Intoxicating Substances. She was a tiny baker with fairy-soft tawny hair and a tinkling voice. Her kindness (and an extra tea cake here and there) had caused Jensen to take notice of the otherwise soft-spoken woman. She was a skilled potioneer from a large wizarding family, and had been one of a set of twins.   
The Mauldes had been married for two years when the baby came, a serious boy with an always-ready smile, his mother's hair and delicate temperament, and his father’s good looks and build. On a typical English Tuesday morning before the story began, strange things were in the air, and certain people of London bustled about importantly.  
Jensen put on his work robes and kissed his already-baking wife on the cheek as he stole a fresh scone from the rack. Smiling, she handed him his briefcase and pointed him bodily toward the fireplace.  
As he glanced out the window, Mr. Maulde saw the tabby cat. It was sitting on the wall of his front garden, staring directly at him. He opened the window and threw the rest of his breakfast out to the stray. The cat sniffed the treat delicately, then raised her head and tilted it, as if to say she didn’t eat others’ scraps.  
The cat stayed in her place on the wall, looking on in disinterest as the man ducked into his fireplace - modified to fit his person more comfortably, if not perfectly - threw down a greenish powder, and said loudly and clearly, 'The Ministry of Magic! Level Two!’ He smirked at his wife and she waved him goodbye as she faded from his vision in a haze of green smoke.

As soon as he arrived, he could tell something was different. The usual security guard, a Death Eater more often than not the past few months, did not appear to interrogate and antagonize him as soon as he landed; and as he stepped out, people bustled or stood about in large groups, talking rapidly. Everyone seemed to have big and exciting news to share; more people smiled than usual, and more people looked scared than usual.  
As Jensen walked towards his office down the hall, he heard snippets of what seemed to be part of the same disjointed conversation.  
'The Potters-'  
'That’s right! Sad business-'  
'-whole family-'  
'-wiped out.'  
'And the baby-’  
'-only barely a year old, too.’  
He was still confused when he arrived in his corridor to find nearly every room full and overflowing with gossiping witches and wizards. The Death Eaters and Dark wizard supporters usually kept a tighter ship than this, fraternizing was heavily frowned upon, and gossip downright prohibited. He was making his way to his own desk, when his neighbour caught his arm, 'Jensen, haven’t you heard?' he asked, noticing his friend’s confusion.  
'Heard what?' he asked, anxiousness increasing at the man’s urgent tone.  
'The Dark Lord is defeated. The Potters, James and Lily, fought him off. Not before they and their son suffered fatal curses, of course sad business, but he’s dead. The war is over!'  
Mr. Maulde stood in the small carpeted hallway, amazed. The busy conversations did seem centered on He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named more than usual now that he focused on them, and the lack of Aurors on the main floor now had an explanation. Everyone was cheerful, yet full of trepidation. No one knew what would happen next. The Dark Lord had allowed some of the smaller departments of the Ministry to continue running, but the whole system of government would need to be built back up as soon as possible. Until it was, the Aurors and other departments of the Higher Magical Law Enforcement would just have to round up the Death Eaters and elect a temporary Minister for Magic to handle the Dementors in charge of the prison called Azkaban.

As hard as it was to concentrate on his work, Jensen Maulde got through his morning with only a very few, and happy, distractions. Since He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named had had no need of secretly moving people at risk of attacks on their lives to new and secure homes - nor did he trust any security personnel besides his own Death Eaters - the witches and wizards of London, and even of the surrounding countryside and several other of the larger cities, were clamouring for the Magical Law Enforcement to be reinstated sooner than was strictly possible.

At lunchtime, he opened the deep, enchanted compartment in his briefcase where his wife had stored his lunch, and made his way to the Ministry cafeteria. After eating his meal and chatting with his coworkers, he sent his wife a short note by way of personal Ministry owl post, and got back to his desk.

At five o’clock, the whistle rang, and there was a general scurry for the elevators and the lines for the Floo network. He put his head into some office doors to say "goodnight" and "congratulations" to some witches and wizards working late or coming in for the night shift, and joined in the happy roar of conversation as he waited his turn to get home.  
The first thing Jensen did when he got home was to greet his wife with a kiss, swirling her around the large kitchen, which earned him a happy shriek and another kiss. He noticed the cat still languished on his wall, and he grinned at her.  
'Let’s celebrate! You should cook that ham we’ve been saving. I’ll call the boys!' he exclaimed as he poured some milk in a dish, and set it out for the cat, who drank it thankfully.  
Florence smiled thoughtfully at her husband, 'I don’t know that we have enough food, dear, but with a pot-luck and plenty of guests, we may be able to feed everyone.'  
He whooped with delight at the thought of a party, which was more than that to which he was expecting his wife to agree. 'I’ll clean up, then call around, some of them might have plans, but I’m sure there’ll be plenty of willing volunteers.' He took the stairs two at a time, and sent off several owls while cleaning up.

His wife put the ham in the oven, baked her favourite cookies and buns, set the jelly in the refrigerator and nipped down to the store for more drinks and snacks. Her husband had received replies in the affirmative to his invitations from almost everyone, and stuck his head back in the fireplace to cajole the rest into coming.  
By the time everyone had arrived, they had enough food and drink to feed the army-sized party, and have leftovers besides. They put on the wizard news radio broadcast, and everyone talked and celebrated freely for the first time in a very long time. Children ran underfoot and sneaked extra cookies, and the adults milled in ever-shifting groups to discuss what would happen next, and who would rise to the seat of Minister, and what would the Muggles think, and weren’t they so glad the children could run around again, and how glad weren’t they that they would no longer have to live under You-Know-Who’s deadly terror. The poor little Potter boy was the last innocent who would have to die in the long war to defeat the Dark Lord.  
That night, firecrackers were lit, people shouted and cheered all throughout London and England and Britain right through to the next morning, and slowly, slowly, the party at the Maulde’s house came to an end as the food ran out, the children tired out, and the guests filed out.  
As Mr. and Mrs. Maulde climbed into bed, they had no idea their lives would be changed next morning by a present on the doorstep, and a new life to vanquish an old one.

/* /* /* *\ *\ *\

The cat who sat on the wall of 21 Fairlane Road was decidedly not sleeping. She had not been scared away by the firecrackers, or the loud partygoers, but sat silently as a statue on the garden wall - in fact several adults had fed her bits of food and she had been scratched by several children, so she was quite happy. It had just struck midnight when a man appeared on the corner of the road where the cat sat watching. He appeared to have popped out of the air - one minute nothing, the next a man - tall and thin and old. He had a silver beard tucked into his belt, which was black, and hair to match. He wore long, purple robes and high, black, buckled boots. The man had bright light blue eyes behind half-moon spectacles, and a very long and crooked nose, broken at least twice. His name was Albus Dumbledore.  
He reached into his robes, walked down the street and rummaged in his pockets, looking for something. As he reached number 21, he noticed the cat, 'Of course,' he chuckled.  
Dumbledore found what he had been looking for and drew it from his pocket. It was a little silver device called a Put-Outer, which looked a bit like an old-fashioned cigarette lighter. He opened the device with his thumb and clicked. The street-lamp light nearest him went out with a quiet hiss and the tiny widget glowed brightly before going out. He repeated this twelve times, until every lamp on the street had gone out, and the only lights you could see in the street were far away and barely discernible. He put away his Put-Outer, sat on the wall by the cat, and, after a minute, he spoke.  
Softly, as if not wishing to wake the inhabitants of the house, the owls roosting in the small owlery Jensen had built, or the tiny mouse family she had very kindly not eaten, even if they had smelt very nice to her cat nose, but which had nonetheless been quivering in terror of her all day, he whispered,'Hullo, Minerva.' He smiled at the cat, but it was no longer a cat. Instead, it was a severe-looking witch wearing square glasses. Her sensible cloak was emerald-colored, and her salt-and-pepper hair (mostly salt) was pulled into a tight bun.  
'Dumbledore,' her voice was grandmotherly. The kind of voice you could tell when the person belonging to it was proud or disappointed, which you wanted to please but which was always one step removed from your immediate well-being.  
'Been here long?' the man asked jovially. Neither of them mentioned the fact that he had known her at first sight even in her cat form, they were old friends.  
'Yes, and it is very stiff and cold work sitting on a brick wall all day, so if you’d be so kind?' She had left her own wand in a safe place for the trip. Dumbledore shook his head slightly and whispered a small charm spell to keep the night’s chill at bay. 'They have been celebrating and partying all night; only just gone home. Even the Muggles have noticed something is- Well, not off. But something is different, and they realize. They are not entirely dim.'  
'That half-wit Dedalus Diggle’s been shooting off enchanted fireworks all over the city; owls’ve been going to and fro, though that mostly late this afternoon, word didn’t get much past the Ministry ’til then; wizards going around in robes instead of Muggle clothing in the middle of the city.' He paused for breath, and McGonagall felt somewhat contrite for her sharp tone.   
Her mouth twitched at the corners, itching to speak, unknowing if her words would be welcome. 'I am only concerned-,' she began; continued, 'I am only concerned that the very day upon which evil was vanquished, they will find out about us. Can you imagine- But no. He is vanquished, Headmaster?'  
'I very much doubt it, Minerva.' He blinked solemnly at her through his spectacles. Rambled slowly into the moonlight, 'But Voldemort is gone, and that must be good enough.' He paused, glanced skyward at a pinprick of light, whispered, 'For now.'  
'A- and Lily? And James. The Potters really are dead? Even the baby?' McGonagall could help the tiny sniffle, but she felt no need to, in the dark and the charmed quiet, on the night such deaths caused such festivities.  
'Yes,' Dumbledore replied gravely, 'they are dead.' He glanced into the sky again, 'And yet- Harry Potter lives. His parents are dead and Voldemort is gone, and he is alive.'  
McGonagall gasped softly, 'Wh-where is he?'  
'Hagrid is bringing him,' he said simply, opening his hands and gesturing to the road before them as if the boy could already be seen. When his friend remained silent, he continued. 'Hagrid is bringing Harry to live here. Jensen and Florence Maulde are his mother’s cousins and the tie to family must not,' he broke with a significant look, 'be loosed. They will receive the baby tonight - I am here to oversee it - with instructions. He will grow up in a magical family, yet no one will know his story. Everyone must think he is dead and he cannot- he cannot use his own name. A clever anagram could be arranged, I suppose, but when the Mauldes are being asked to give up everything else, we must let them keep their name. And Harry will have plenty of time to be a Potter when he is quite grown up, I should think.'  
'How is he getting here?'  
A low rumbling could be heard through the cacophony of the city. They looked up the road and down it, but saw no headlights. Dumbledore pointed silently to the sky, the pinprick of light he had been watching earlier had grown to a bright glow, close and moving closer. Soon, the rumble was a roar and a giant motorcycle fell noisily out of the sky to land in front of them.  
The motorcycle had had an Engorgio charm placed on it, to accommodate for the man sitting on it. He was almost twice as tall as an average man, and five times as wide. He looked too big to be allowed, and too wild - long, bushy, black hair and a beard that obscured his face; hands like trashcan lids, and feet in skin boots, each one the size of a baby seal. He was holding a tiny bundle in the vast expanse of his arms.  
'Hagrid,' Dumbledore sighed, 'Where did you get that motorcycle?'  
'Borrer’d it, ‘Erfessor Dummledor, sir,' the giant growled, climbing delicately and smoothly off the bike, 'Sirius Black lent it me. I’ve got ‘im, sir.'  
'No problems?'  
'No sir, house near destroyed, but I got ‘im out a’right right afore them Muggles started swarmin’. Fell asleep flyin’ o’er Bristol.' He smiled a giant, whiskery smile at the babe.  
The headmaster and professor joined him in bending over the blankets. They could just see the baby boy, sleeping soundly. Under his jet-black hair there was a curious cut, shaped like a lightning flash.  
'Is that where-?' McGonagall whispered.  
'Yes,' Dumbledore replied quietly, bending back, 'He’ll have it forever.'  
'Could you do something about it, sir?'  
'Not I, and I wouldn’t. Scars can be handy, like the one above my left knee shaped like the London Underground. Give him over, Hagrid, we’ll get this done.' He took the sleeping child into his own arms and turned toward the house.  
'Could I- Could I say goo’bye to ‘im, sir?' he snuffled, bending his head to give the boy a whiskery, watery kiss. He let out a howling sob.  
'Hush, you will wake the Muggles! And the baby!' McGonagall reprimanded him, but leaned over to kiss the soft hair, as well.  
'S-s-sorry,' he stuttered into his sheet-sized handkerchief, 'Poor H-h-harry, o-off ta' li-ive wi’out ‘is mum and da, is all. A-an’ them dead!'  
'It is very sad, but please calm down and be quiet!' She patted Harry and turned to the porch-swing, transfiguring it quietly into a comfortable bassinet as Dumbledore cast a small warming charm over the area. After laying a thick, yellow parchment envelope in the new bassinet with the baby, he went to stand with the others in the street. They stared at the bundle a full minute, Hagrid still sobbing but quietly now, Professor McGonagall blinking slowly, Dumbledore’s eyes a bit less twinkly than usual.  
'Well, that’s that. We’d better leave. Got lots of celebrating to do.'  
'Yea,' Hagrid sniffled one last time, 'I’ll take Sirius ‘is bike back. G’night, P'rfessor, 'eadmaster, sir.' He wiped his tears and took off with a roar into the night.  
'I expect we’ll see each other soon, Professor,' said Dumbledore. His companion blew her nose.  
The old wizard walked back down the street with his Put-Outer, clicked it once - the lights snicked back to their lamp-posts all at once - and in the orange glow he could see a tabby cat streak around the corner, and the squarish baby basket on the porch.  
'Good luck, Harry,' he said to himself. Then he turned on his heel, and Disapparated.

/* /* /* *\ *\ *\ 

A breeze ruffled the Maulde’s garden, the last place the neighbours expected anything extraordinary to happen. Harry Potter rolled over in his blankets, clutched the envelope, slept on. He didn’t know that he was special, that he was famous, or that he would be woken in a few hours when Florence stepped out to pick up fresh milk for her son’s birthday pudding. He didn’t know that he would be picked up and played with by his young relative, the Maudes’ child Peter, cooed over by friends and new family members alike… He didn’t know that at this very moment, people were holding up glasses all over the country and whispering, 'To the Potters, who vanquished the Dark Lord.'  
He didn’t know any of this, and so he slept on.


	2. The Vanishing Glasses

Two months later, the Mauldes were moved into a little house rather than the townhouse flat in central London. Jensen was head of the Department of Investigation in the Ministry of Magic, and had implemented new Muggle relations techniques for his employees, while Florence sold goods out of the bakery on the corner, baby on her hip as she laughed with her customers, and their toddler son was shuttled to and from Muggle and magical daycares.

/* /* /* *\ *\ *\

After ten years, the small London suburb hadn’t changed, but the people living there had grown up. The sun rose and set on a living room filled with many ordinary things: chairs and sofas, tables and books. But the room also held strange things, like pictures whose objects moved about in their frames, a broom which swept up messes by itself without anyone directing it, a radio kept tuned to the wizarding channel - inaccessible except through charmed devices - and several old tomes of magic spells and potions in among the more mundane selections on the bookshelves.  
The pictures showed a happy family. There was a tall, square-muscled man with laugh lines crinkling his face in the corners; a small, prim lady with a shy smile and kind eyes; a leggy, fair-haired young man, who laughed and rubbed his brother’s hair as they moved about the frame; and a skinny boy with jet-black, wildly curly hair arranged carefully over a lightning-shaped scar, and bright green eyes that took in everything with delight - and some level of mischief. 

'Wake up, Peter! Up, Harry!' said a voice, and you wouldn’t think it could get that loud to see the lady.  
The boys slowly made their way to the hall, in differing states of alertness. Pete immediately made his way downstairs, following the breakfast-smell of his favourite strawberry muffins, eggs, and coffee.  
Harry shuffled to the bathroom, trying to remember a dream he had been having. It was a familiar dream, but he could never remember it. Had he been flying a motorcycle?  
His mother appeared at the door, 'Are you awake, dear?'  
He yawned and smiled at her, crossing to his room and pulling out clothes, 'Barely.'  
She returned the smile before saying, 'We have a schedule to stick to. Everything should go smoothly for Peter’s birthday today.'  
He groaned. The morning never agreed with him, and having to keep a schedule this early made him want to crawl right back under the covers.  
'Come to breakfast when you’re done. There’s bacon.'  
He brightened minutely at this obvious bribe, pulling on his clothes. When he got to the kitchen, a few presents were already piled on the table. 'Comb your hair,' Jensen said upon entering the kitchen, not even bothering to glance at his son. Harry scurried off to obey. His hair was always unruly, no matter how many times he combed it, and it always made him seem scruffier than usual. He was too short, really, for Peter’s hand-me-downs, too. His brother was about four times taller than he, despite only being two years older.  
Florence waved her wand at his head, and the hair on top flattened itself in a neat, casual style. Jensen looked up from his papers as she refilled their coffees and poured juice for her clumsy sons, who couldn’t be entrusted with such a task. 'Where are your glasses, boy?'  
Their father always called them ‘boy’ when he was upset, or mildly angry. Full names came out in dire situations. Once, Harry had been caught on his father’s broomstick in the field over from his school by the old farmer who lived there. There had been a punishment for him, and one for his father, too. But that hadn’t stopped him flying where he was less likely to be noticed.  
'Dunno, sir,' he replied, grinning. He was underage, and not allowed to do big magic, but the Ministry looked over small things like missing keys and growing-out hair. His father must say at least once a week that he needed a haircut.  
'Well, go find them,' Jensen grinned back, 'And if it takes all day, no zoo and no cake for you.'  
'Da-a-ad,' he groaned, going back to his room. He knew they would be in their case, unless someone else looked for them there. He had the uncanny ability to wish his things anywhere he wanted them to go, or rather, to wish them not to be wherever he didn’t want them. The glasses were round, metal, and fixed together with so much Scotch tape, they were less glasses than tape. He tended to fall off his broom when racing around in the woods, and crashed into things walking around at home. His mother had had to forbid reading and walking at the same time.  
The one thing Harry liked about his looks was the thin lightning bolt scar on his forehead. Over the years, he’d accrued quite a few, as he was an unfortunate mix of clumsy, too small for his long limbs, and unnaturally adventurous. He’d had this first scar, though, since he could remember and asked his mother about it often.  
'When you were a baby,' was the only answer she would ever give him, looking sad. His father was worse, as he just ruffled the boy’s hair and grinned as widely as Harry’d ever seen anyone grin. It always made him feel sad, his stomach squirming with discomfort.

As the family ate breakfast the phone rang and while Florence went to answer it, Peter ripped into his presents. One was a small TV for the boys’ room, and Harry knew who would be hogging the remote. There was also a VCR and a few new tapes, a couple of computer games, and a nice new watch which displayed the time as well as a few other more magical features, accessible by tiny dials on either side of the bronze watch face. Both boys preferred to stay outside, but on rainy days there were only so many times you could play wizard chess, or study spells and potions. Harry handed over his first present.  
'What’s this?' Peter put the straw hat on his head. Their mother often said he was growing so fast, he might as well have been a giant, but Harry joked that he was more like a scarecrow.  
'Thought it suited you, Scarecrow,' Harry replied, but he pulled out his real present, which had taken several months of odd jobs, and a little extra money from his parents to save up for.  
As his brother pulled off the paper, he gasped. It was a new broom, a Nimblestorm 29, not the best, but a quick broom with good handling. Pete wordlessly gripped his shoulder, grinning hugely.  
After glancing at each other, the boys turned to race outside. Their mother stopped them at the door and said, 'Piers is coming over around twelve, boys. Be good, and come back in at eleven to get cleaned up.'  
Harry groaned inwardly, but kept his smile in place and enthusiastically raced out to the garden shed and down the street to the forest. Usually, the grove of trees near the park in their town was empty. It sat too near the graveyard for the comfort of the younger children and their watchers, and held no appeal as a hideout for the teenaged occupants of the town, as it was farther away and didn’t have the dry roofs of the warehouses near the quarry, which made it the perfect place for two magical boys to race among the trees. As the boys set up their game, Harry thought of Piers. The older boy had been Peter’s best friend at the Muggle school. Not many people in school used to bully Harry when his older brother was the star of the football team, but since he had started at Hogwarts, the children had started in about Harry’s too-big clothes and taped-up glasses.  
Piers was the worst, and Harry called him ‘Rat’ because he was easily susceptible to the taunting of the cattier older students who toyed with Harry for their own amusement. He was glad he was turning eleven, and could finally get away from them at Hogwarts.

Within minutes, the boys had set up their game and met at the big central tree in their tiny forest haunt. There were not enough magical families in the area to get up a proper game of Quidditch, so Harry had never played, though he had seen games before. The brothers had made up a substitute. Each player had a total of ten flags, and they hid them at different points in the forest. Then, starting at a central point, they hunted around the forest in a race to find the flags first. When the boys met in the woods they could tag each other, and the tagged boy would be frozen for twenty seconds. Their mother had helped by teaching Harry to make up a potion that froze them for the proper amount of time, and the boys had Muggle water guns loaded with the liquid. They also laid Muggle traps they’d seen in old spy movies around their flags. Their game could be played on the ground or in the air, but since their little suburb was Muggle-inhabited, they were only allowed to play it on foot.  
Harry won the game that day, but Pete had gotten eight flags by the time Harry won, so it was a close thing. Neither boy had been sprayed with the freezing potion too much, so they took quick showers, and ate lunch with Piers when he turned up.

/* /* /* *\ *\ *\

The older boys chatted in the back seat of the car as the family, plus one, made their way to the London Zoo. (The little Astra might’ve been a bit roomier than you’d think, looking at it from the outside.) Jensen grumbled about some motorcycles on the road which were swerving in and out of traffic.  
'I had a dream I was flying a motorcycle,' Harry interjected without thinking.  
His mother fixed him with a somewhat disapproving frown, but his father chuckled loudly. Peter smiled at the thought, and Piers smirked at him. He thought at first that he shouldn’t have said anything that would make the kids at school think him any more strange, then grinned widely when he remembered that he wasn’t going to the Muggle school come September.  
He turned to his brother and said in a slightly more conspiratorial tone, 'There was a giant in the sidecar,' he smirked directly at Piers, before turning back to the front of the car. The rest of the ride passed in relative silence.  
When they arrived, the boys ran for the first ice cream truck they saw. Eating the treat as slowly as possible, they strolled around the zoo, making fun of the monkeys, calling back to the birds, and roaring at the lions. By the time they got to the reptile house later in the afternoon, Piers was getting bored. Harry was drifting further apart from the rest.  
He saw a fat little boy yelling at his father, who was trying to get the boa constrictor to move. It seemed the snake was asleep. At last, the boy decided he was bored and moved on, leaving a space for Harry to sneak in.  
He spoke aloud, 'I know how you feel,' he whispered, more to himself than the snake, 'I’m the only one of my kind at my school.'  
The snake lifted its head and winked at the boy.  
'Did you wink at me?'  
It winked again, then pointed at the boy who had just been banging on the glass and waved its head in a clear imitation of a human being rolling their eyes.  
Harry winked back, and asked the snake where it came from. The reptile pointed to the little plaque which read, ‘Bred in captivity, the Brazilian Boa Constrictor can even crush cars in its thick coils!’  
The snake circled its eyes with its tail and narrowed them.  
'My glasses?' he asked, and the snake nodded, 'I hate wearing them, and they always break.' He smiled. Two seconds later, his glasses were perched on the end of the constrictor’s snout.  
'Peter! Come see this snake! It’s wearing Harry’s glasses!' Piers had snuck up behind him and seen almost the whole thing.  
His father whipped around and marched over to the two boys. Peter looked around nervously, then dragged Piers by the arm gently to stand with his mother, who was quietly and determinedly making her way into the early Saturday evening sun.  
Harry gulped, 'I didn’t do it on purpose,' he said defensively, 'I was just wondering what the snake would look like wearing glasses, and then-.'  
His father said nothing, and the glasses snapped back to his face in a whirl of subtle magic. He just looked sternly down at his son, until the boy lowered his eyes and mumbled 'sorry'.  
'I do not condone this type of behaviour, boy,' and Harry knew he was not truly angry, but disappointed, 'In our home, these types of silly incidents are tolerated, but in public-. This type of magic could easily get out of hand.' He looked a little sad,' Luckily, only Piers saw it, and it will be easy to fix this. Any more infractions of the Ministry’s law,' he paused to let this sink in, 'and you can forget about going to Hogwarts this year.'  
'I am sorry, Father,' Harry said contritely. He meant his apology, if only for the warning. He winked at the constrictor once more as they left the building.  
The family and Piers ate dinner at an old-fashioned diner, and the boys celebrated a bit loudly. Piers had gotten Peter a deck of playing cards and some chips, and swore out of hearing of the grown-ups that he would teach him to play poker. Peter smiled thankfully, and threw his mother a quick glance to reassure her - who had, of course, heard - promising as Harry distracted his friend that he would not agree to play with real money or things of value to him.  
Harry was still in trouble, so he got no cake that night, and had extra chores all the next week, but he didn’t mind so much when he remembered the snake with glasses on.


	3. Hogwarts Letters

The beginning of the last week in July, Augusta Longbottom dropped her grandson Neville off at the Mauldes’ house, as she did every summer. The boys, being born only a day apart, were as close friends as any children thrust together by their parents could be. Dumbledore had enlisted his friend for her help in keeping an eye on Harry, mostly by hinting strongly that she should keep their families close.

/* /* /* *\ *\ *\

The morning of his friend’s birthday, Harry woke early from another motorcycle dream. He shook himself awake uneasily and cleaned up while everyone else slumbered on. This particular day, they were doing something much more exciting than going to the zoo, and he was looking forward to it, remembering the fun they’d had three years ago, when Peter had turned eleven.  
Harry wasn’t, himself, turning eleven ’til the next day, but both boys had fun celebrating their birthdays together over two days. They would have an extra cake, and he wouldn’t have any chores for two days instead of one.

By the time he had finished, the others were rousing, and Neville walked solidly into him on his way to the kitchen. He wasn’t a very big child, but he had a tendency to watch his feet instead of his front, so bumping into things was a common occurrence.  
'Watch where you’re going, ya’ lug,' Peter shouted to his brother from the hall, laughing as he watched the boys collide.   
Harry smiled, 'Sorry, Neville, I wasn’t looking 'round the corner.'  
Neville grinned back, 'S’ok, Harry.'  
The boys ate a hearty breakfast. Oatmeal with sour fruits and brown sugar, eggs and sausage, coffee and juice. As they were finishing the washing up, there was the loud click of mail sliding through the front door, and a thud as it hit the basket and tried to break out. Harry jumped up, hastily drying his soapy hands on a towel, to get it and, with Neville right behind him, raced to the door.  
'It’s our letters, has to be,' panted Harry, and his friend nodded excitedly, equally breathless, taking the envelope offered him.  
The boys tore open the letters, and read them off.  
*\ *\ *\ /* /* /*  
HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY

Headmaster: ALBUS DUMBLEDORE  
(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)

Dear Mr. Maulde,  
(Mr. Longbottom in Neville’s copy.)  
We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.  
Term begins on September 1. We await your owl by no later than July 31.

Yours sincerely,

Minerva McGonagall,  
Deputy Headmistress

/* /* /* *\ *\ *\  
And on the second sheet, a thicker parchment with charms against being lost:  
/* /* /* *\ *\ *\

HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY

UNIFORM  
First year students will require:  
1\. Three sets of plain work robes (black with silver trim)  
2\. One plain pointed hat (black with silver trim) for day wear  
3\. One pair of protective gloves (dragon hide or similar)  
4\. One winter cloak (black with silver trim and fastenings)  
Please note that all pupil’s clothing should carry name tags.

COURSE BOOKS  
All students should have a copy of the following:  
The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1)  
by Miranda Goshawk  
A History of Magic  
by Bathilda Bagshot  
Magical Theory  
by Adalbert Waffling  
A Beginner’s Guide to Transfiguration  
by Emeric Switch  
One Thousand Herbs and Fungi  
by Phyllida Spore  
Magical Drafts and Potions  
by Arsenius Jiggler  
Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them  
by Newt Scamander  
The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection  
by Quentin Trimble

OTHER EQUIPMENT  
1 wand  
1 cauldron (pewter, standard size 2)  
1 set glass or crystal phials  
1 telescope  
1 set brass scales

Students may also bring, if they desire, an appropriate familiar.  
GUARDIANS ARE REMINDED THAT FIRST YEARS  
ARE NOT ALLOWED THEIR OWN BROOMSTICK ON HOGWARTS GROUNDS

Yours sincerely,

Lucinda Thomsonicle-Pocus  
Chief Attendant of Witchcraft Provisions  
/* /* /* *\ *\ *\  
Each boy had gotten a letter, and there was the regular third-year one for Peter, too. They looked at each other and grinned. They couldn’t wait to get to Diagon Alley.

The adults shuffled them off to the fireplace. 'Peter first, there’s a lad,' Jensen boomed, 'Now, don’t go wandering off until I get there, you hear, boy?'  
'Yessir,' Peter was bouncing on his tiptoes. He grabbed a pinch of Floo powder, and took off through the network, shouting ‘Diagon Alley’, as he threw the powder at his feet. His parents expected him to take off right toward Flourish and Blotts, but trusted him to go no further. Harry’s brother was a Ravenclaw through and through, if ever there was one.  
Mr. Maulde went next, his voice happy and loud, to join Peter in the bookstore. Then off went Neville, his voice shaking a bit, but pronouncing every syllable correctly. Harry went next, keeping his elbows tucked, knees bent, and shutting his eyes, as the sensation made him somewhat nauseous. He hated traveling by Floo.  
When he opened his eyes and dropped through the chimney, his friend grabbed his arm and dragged him away, toward the shop but standing outside to wait. Mrs. Maulde joined them presently, keeping one hand on Harry’s shoulder, and looking quite proud of her growing-up son.   
Once Peter had exited the store, books bundled under one arm, Florence took the other boys into the small shop, and helped them each to find a copy of every book on their list. Mrs. Maulde paid for Harry’s out of a small bag on her arm, and Neville shyly instructed the shopkeep to credit his Hogwarts tab, to be paid by his Gran. Next, they went to a small trunk-shop, where Harry picked out a large chest for school. He had a smaller one at home, but it would never hold all the things he needed for the long months at Hogwarts. Neville said he was going to use his dad’s old trunk, and that his grandmother had sent it to be repaired. Harry’s mother asked the man at the counter to hold the trunks until they were done with their shopping. He agreed, and she handed him an extra Sickle. He thanked her as they walked out of the store.  
Next, they went to Wiseacre’s Wizarding Equipment and Potage’s Cauldron Shop for their class things, and Slug & Jiggers Apothecary for their potion ingredients. There was a little kit with ‘Everything a student could need for their first year of potions!’ written in blue ink on the front of the box. They stopped in Scribbulus Writing Instruments to buy parchment and ink and all kinds of quills. Neville worried about the bills.  
Madam Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions for their school robes followed. The Hogwarts robes were all laid out in front, and the boys stood up on stools while the short woman pinned up their hems and got the robes and cloaks to fit right. Their tie and vest measurements were taken as well.  
As they waited for Madam Malkin to magically sew up their robes, another boy walked into the shop. He was Harry and Neville’s age, but held his pale nose high in the air as he breezed through the shop and climbed onto a stool without waiting for an invitation. The blond boy stood there with his arms in the air like a scarecrow, waiting for the shop’s squat proprietor to attend to him.  
'Hogwarts, too?' he asked, sounding bored, when he noticed the other occupants of the store.  
'Yes,' replied Harry, as Neville lowered his eyes and wrung his hands nervously.  
'My father’s next door, buying my books. And Mother’s up looking at wands,' he said, looking pointedly at Madam Malkin’s back while she ignored him, 'I’ll have to drag them off to look at racing brooms. I don’t see why first years can’t bring their own. I’m going to bully Father into buying me one, and smuggle it in.'  
Harry looked disgusted, and inched his way in front of his friend.  
'Have you got a broom?' the boy continued.  
'No,' Harry replied.  
'Play Quidditch at all?'  
'Never. But I’ve been to see the Canons play, with my dad and brother. Peter’s trying out for his year’s team this.'  
'I play,' the boy said snobbishly, 'Father says it’d be a travesty if I’m not chosen to play, and I quite agree. What House do you figure you’ll end up in?' 'Dunno,' Harry had reservations about speculating on that subject, 'but my brother’s Ravenclaw.'  
'Well, no one can say for sure until they get there, can they.' It wasn’t a question. 'But I’ll be Slytherin my whole school career - my whole family has been. Imagine, me a Hufflepuff, I’d leave. Wouldn’t you?'  
'No,' said Harry obstinately.  
'Say, aren’t you that Longbottom twerp?' The annoying boy leant around Harry, balancing precariously on the edge of the stool.  
Harry slid further in front of Neville. His mother huffed in exasperation, and took the smaller boy out of the store.  
'Why is he with you?' he asked, though he was too busy inspecting his fancy robes for dust to really pay attention.  
'Because he’s my friend,' Harry replied, 'not that it’s your business. And today is his birthday.' He added for emphasis.  
'Father says the Longbottom family is pureblood and one of the best - though not as good as we, of course. I think they shouldn’t let any Muggle-related sods in - they should just keep it in the old wizarding families. The real ones. What is your surname, anyway?'  
Madam Malkin interrupted the boys, handing Harry two paper-wrapped packages, 'That’s yours, dear.' Harry thanked her, and handed her the money his mother had left.  
'I’ll see you at Hogwarts, I suppose,' the snobbish boy shrugged.

Harry had never been gladder to be out of a shop. His mother was across the street in Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour, where Neville was eating a vanilla with caramel sauce and bits of chocolate candy out of a bowl, and she was biting into an orange sherbet. There was a chocolate cone of raspberry ice, topped with chopped nuts, waiting for him in the rack. Harry sat down, and they ate in relative peace, until he broke the silence with ‘What kind of wands do you think we’ll get?’  
Next indeed, was Ollivander’s Wand Shop, and the boys felt a hush come over them as they entered the shop. Florence sat in the tall-backed chair while the boys walked up to the counter, where they stared in awe at the boxes - millions of long, thin boxes stacked high to the ceiling, in teetering piles, some strewn on the floor.  
Although Garrick Ollivander was an old man, his silver-grey eyes were bright, reflecting that his memory was nothing to be trifled with.  
'Hullo, Harry,' he said, sliding up from behind the counter, where he had been rearranging his stock.  
'Sir,' Harry replied, confused.  
'I remember when your brother Peter came in to get his wand: willow, unicorn hair, 8 1/2, quite sturdy.' The man leaned towards him distractedly, ghosting his fingertips over the lightning-scar on his forehead, continued, whispering, ' And the one that gave you… this scar-.' He gazed into the distant nothing, then blinked back to reality. 'Yew, thirteen-and-a-half inches. A core of phoenix feather, very brittle. Too powerful,' he muttered.  
Ollivander slid back behind his counter, rummaging for his tape measurer, 'Neville Longbottom! I see you’re in today, as well, happy birthday, lad.'  
Neville blushed and looked at his fingers.  
'Here for a wand, too?'  
'No sir,' he mumbled, 'Gonna use dad’s.'  
'Ah,' he raised his eyebrows.  
'Works fine, Grandmother had me practice.'  
'I see, well, if you ever need a wand, come see me, my boy.' He had crossed back to Harry, and pulled the measuring tape out. It had silver markings all along its edges. 'Which is your wand arm?'  
'Err, right, I think?' His mother nodded from her chair.  
'Hold out your arm.' He measured Harry from shoulder to finger, wrist to elbow, shoulder to floor, knee to armpit, then 'round his head. His voice took on a half-toneless, half-excited tone, 'Every Ollivander wand has a core of a powerful magical substance,' he paused, 'Mr. Maulde. We use unicorn hairs, phoenix tail feathers, and heartstrings of dragons. No two Ollivander wands are the same, just as no two magical creatures are quite the same. And of course, you’ll never get such good results with another wizard’s wand.'  
The tape measure suddenly started measuring on its own, as Ollivander took down boxes. When it measured between his nostrils, the wand-maker came back and said, 'That will quite do,' sternly. The tape measure fell on the floor, curling itself up meekly. He handed Harry a wand. 'Beechwood and dragon heartstring, nine inches. Nice and flexible, give it a wave.'  
Harry waved it around a bit, but Mr. Ollivander snatched it away. 'Maple and phoenix feather. Seven inches, quite whippy. Try.'  
He had hardly raised the wand when it was taken away. 'No, no. Ebony and unicorn hair, eight and a half, springy. Go on, go on!'  
He tried and tried, but nothing happened. He wasn’t sure what Mr. Ollivander was waiting for. The more he tried out, the more the wand-maker seemed to be enjoying himself.  
'Tricky customer,' he grinned, 'Don’t worry, we’ll get it sorted. Why not an unusual combination? Holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches, nice and supple.' He pulled out a box from just under the counter.  
Harry held the wand, and felt warmth in his fingers. He raised it above his head, and swished it down, and- nothing particularly exciting happened. The boxes vibrated quietly in their boxes, but that could’ve been their own inherent magic. Everything in the store creaked and groaned and they each felt a slightly different sense of foreboding. Ollivander looked delighted, though, and pronounced Harry 'Paired!' Neville and his mother clapped politely from their chairs, where they had been waiting, bored.  
'It’s very curious, Mr. Maulde, the phoenix who gave the feather for your wand gave another feather. Just one. And it is curious that you should be destined for this wand, when its brother-.' He looked curiously at Florence’s tight-lipped face.  
'Its brother what?' Harry asked animatedly.  
'Its brother… was the wand of the Dark Lord,' he finished flatly, 'Thirteen and a half inches, yew. The wand choses the wizard. I think we must expect great things from you. After all, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named did great things - terrible, yes. But great.'  
Neville was whimpering very quietly. Harry decided he did not like Garrick Ollivander much, and his mother paid the seven Galleons for his wand as they left the shop.

The next place they visited was Harry’s favourite. He was more excited about it than the wandshop, and definitely more nervous. Jensen and Peter joined them at Eeylops Owl Emporium, where Harry had decided to choose a familiar. Peter had gotten and trained a golden eagle when he had started. They left with a large snowy owl, and he promised his mother to take very good care of her, even at school.  
The group made their way to Gringotts, and the boys waited outside while the adults went in to withdraw some money, in case the boys needed any while at Hogwarts. Peter agreed to let Harry go down to Magical Menagerie, since it was within sight, after a very heated - and whispered - argument.  
Harry made his way into the shop, giving his brother a wave to indicate he was fine and would be out soon. Once inside, he was greeted by a cacophony of mews, crows, croaks, screeches, and any number of inaudible sounds from the store’s merchandise. He took his time looking around before finally settling on something and making his purchase.  
He came out of the store and joined his brother and Neville - his package tightly wrapped, but with tiny holes all over the brown paper - just as his parents were coming out of the wizard bank.  
'Happy birthday, Neville!' he exclaimed happily, thrusting the box toward his friend.  
Neville unwrapped the present, and found a glass case with a large toad inside. He watched it speechlessly for a moment, then turned and thanked Harry, who grinned sheepishly.  
'I was going to get something more appropriate,' he admitted, 'But I don’t know you’d exactly get on with a crow.'  
Neville shook his head, 'I’m allergic, anyway.' He smiled down at the toad, and named it Trevor.


End file.
